


Do Not Call John

by LiveAndLetLive



Series: A Lot of Not Talking [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Asexuality, Blood and Injury, Concussions, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27167768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveAndLetLive/pseuds/LiveAndLetLive
Summary: Sherlock had been holding Rosie with his back to John. He swore he saw Sherlock rest his nose against the top of her head, his eyes closed.What the hell had happened on that case?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: A Lot of Not Talking [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964161
Comments: 10
Kudos: 112





	Do Not Call John

“Do not call John.”

Greg hears him loud and clear, taking his phone out of his pocket.

“George.” Sherlock warns. This makes Greg smirk, both men knowing that doesn’t work anymore. He scrolls through his contacts.

At Sherlock’s “Greg, please!”, Greg finally looks down at the man sat at his feet. In the headlight of a police car, he could see blood matted in the hair behind his ear, dribbling slowly down his face, neck and blooming into the shirt underneath his Belstaff. Sherlock’s eyes shine with genuine pleading.

He puts his phone back into his pocket, and frowns with his jaw clenched. He can put two and two together: Mary dies and Sherlock and John’s relationship goes downhill. Before her death, they could talk without words – something so intense that it made Greg slightly uncomfortable at times – and know what the other needs by glance. As Sherlock looks up at him from his seat against a brick wall, he gives in. Just like he always has for all these years.

“It’s John or the hospital.” Lestrade reasoned, still not quite understanding his repulsion at either suggestion.

“Neither. It’ll clot.” Sherlock glared.

Greg sighs and swears he feels his hair grey. “I’ll drive you home.”

He grabs Sherlock under his elbow and helps him to his unsteady feet. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak.

“In an unmarked police car.” Greg rushes to assure.

On the way to Baker street, he checks on Sherlock through the rear-view mirror. He looks pale.

“He’ll be asleep by now.” Sherlock mutters to himself, eyes drooping. “Don’t go to sleep.” Greg warns. Sherlock opens his eyes to glare at him, but complies. His glare doesn’t falter when he sees John standing outside of Baker street with that damn worried Watson look. He’s seen that look at the announcement of his boredom, at his quietness and when he’s succumbed to his transport’s injuries. Tiresome.

“For God’s sake.” Sherlock grunts, flinging open the car door and pretending it didn’t take the effort it did. He walks past John without acknowledgment and storms up the stairs. Knowing he was out of view of his worried blogger, he slows down and wobbles to the kitchen stools- his usual pitstop for when he needs John to patch him up. They don’t really do this much anymore and he is glad for it- John had a child to prioritise now and Sherlock hated himself for getting in the way of that.

“Don’t let Rosie see me.” Sherlock murmurs to John when he finally catches up, looking worriedly upwards in the direction of her room. John thanks Lestrade, and when Sherlock isn’t looking, Greg mimes to John that he’ll call him later. John nods.

“I thought these days were behind us.” John smiles feebly when he hears the front door close. He walks over to Sherlock and tilts his head back to get a better look in the dingy kitchen light. He rests a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

John doesn’t move his hand away when Sherlock jumps at the sudden contact and it hurts him more than he can currently process. “You’re alright.” John soothes, squeezing his shoulder softly with another worried frown. He could see the wound wasn’t too deep and went about cleaning it using alcohol wipes from his first aid kit. “I think we might get away with taping it up. Did you pass out or feel sick or anything?”

“No.” Sherlock answers. “I don’t really remember what happened.”

John freezes at this and stares at him for a few heartbeats. “Right.” That was a lie. “Concussion probably.” He’s good at spotting them now.

Sherlock hums his agreement, stretching his torso and wincing. John notices, of course, permanently tuned in to the detective’s wellbeing.

“Shirt.” John instructs.

Whilst John goes through his kit to find a torch, Sherlock unbuttons his shirt rather self-consciously. This isn’t the first time John has seen him shirtless. John doesn’t think about it.

He turns back to him, eyes disciplined to look only above Sherlock’s chin, and shines the light into his eyes. John apologises when Sherlock flinches at the intrusion and is pleased to see his pupils react perfectly. He then rubs his hands together and delicately runs them around Sherlock’s chest, checking rib after rib. Sherlock’s skin is soft and warm but breaks out in goose bumps at John’s touch. John doesn’t think about it.

“Is Rosie well?” Sherlock asks, distracting them both. He’s good at that.

“I think she’s coming down with something, actually.” John replies, concentrating and feeling for any cracks. He leans back when he feels none, only now noticing how far back he has to lean to be an appropriate distance away. Walking to the sink, he wets a cloth and makes sure to fill a bowl with warm water. He sets it next to Sherlock on the table.

He pulls a stool closer, sits with his legs almost brushing Sherlock’s, and begins to wash away the blood. He tries to hide his shaking hands by doing the job quickly, but he could see Sherlock watching out of the corner of his eye. Both men know he can’t stand Sherlock’s blood, and both know that Sherlock does in fact remember exactly how it got there.

-

_“Where are you off to, Mr Waker?” Sherlock asked, hopping out of the shadows with his hands behind his back. The suspect jumped in shock and pulled a knife out his pocket, chest heaving from his run down the alley. “Dead end.”_

_The suspect grits his teeth and squeezes the knife’s handle._

_“Drop the act.” Mr Waker spits, shuffling closer with shaky steps. “I’ve seen you with your little family.”_

_Sherlock felt the fun of the game drain away, replaced by the distant acknowledgement that he might kill this man tonight. His hand quivered with the phantom sensation of a tiny one in his and his mind flashed with the image of a tired smile resting below kind eyes. They were his, so precious and fragile that he feared they would break in this dead man’s mouth._

_The suspect let his triumph show on his face at getting the desired reaction and stepped closer still._

_“You’re not so untouchable anymore, are you? Everyone’s heard. It’d be so easy to-“_

-

Sherlock goes out the next day to tie up the loose ends of the case. That’s what John was told, but he knows he probably irritated Sherlock by waking him up every half an hour to check for brain damage, annoying him so much so the man had fled from the flat.

He seemed wound up even before that, and John can only guess as to why that is.

Sherlock had been holding Rosie with his back to John. He swore he saw Sherlock rest his nose against the top of her head, his eyes closed. What the hell had happened to him on that case?

Perhaps his life had been in danger. Whenever that happens, Sherlock always gravitates closer to John. He gives in to the something both men usually resist until he feels more at ease and strong enough to back away once more. Sometimes, they both get too tired to keep pulling.

Now, Rosie’s face is red from screaming and she won’t stop. “Shh, please, Rosie.” John tries, bouncing the little girl up and down softly and rubbing her back. This worsens her screams and John tries not to need Sherlock to come back. He can do this on his own. He can cope today. He instead tries putting her down in her rocker and giving her space. It’s not working. It’s not working.

His phone is in his hand and calling Molly.

“John?” Molly asks, on edge at the sound of Rosie’s cries.

“Yeah, hi.” John takes a deep breath to stop himself from being overwhelmed in his humiliation. “Sherlock’s not here.”

He hears a shuffle on the other side of the phone. “I’ll be right there.” She says calmly. He doesn’t have it in him to thank her and instead just hangs up. He walks past Rosie and into the kitchen, his chest tightening around his lungs and his ears ringing from the assault. He pours himself a drink, carries it to his chair, and swallows it down until Molly comes and does the job of the father he fails to be.

When Sherlock does get home, he doesn’t ask why Rosie isn’t here. This isn’t the first time.

“Christ.” He hears whispered from the kitchen, and he looks over from the sofa to see John leaning his weight against the table, his bad leg bending uselessly and an empty glass in his hand. He didn’t move to help him, or fetch the walking stick that has recently made a reappearance in the flat, as that wouldn’t ease John’s feeling of uselessness.

Slowly, John shifts his weight back onto both legs.

“John.”

“Leave it, Sherlock.”

John pushes determinedly away from the table and walks to his bottle of whiskey, trying desperately to conceal his limp. Sherlock gets up and walks over to him, quietly fetching a glass of his own, which John ignores. They both take their drinks back to their adjacent chairs and sip quietly, John holding his gaze away from Sherlock.

“No point in drinking alone.” John mutters, picking something from his chair.

“No.” Sherlock agrees, staring at his glass and trying to calculate the extent of John's sobriety.

John was exhausted, a kind of tiredness he couldn’t rely on sleep to fix. He needed to fix this. He needed to put this fight with himself to rest. Why can’t he just take what he needs? It’s right there. He was a mere meter away from him. And John was drunk.

“Who do you have, Sherlock?” John asks tiredly, his eyes closed.

Sherlock blinks at the sudden change of direction. This stings slightly and his precisely constructed exterior almost gives way.

“You and Rosie.” He answers, trying to keep any question out of his tone.

John smiles and looks at Sherlock, hearing the question there anyway. “You do.” He says, then gulps back the rest of his drink. He dumps the empty glass on the arm of his chair. “That’s not what I meant, though.”

When Sherlock decides he’s not being teased, he takes a sip of his own drink. “I’m not what people look for.”

John just stares at him, compelling him to continue.

Sherlock looks back down and John takes the time to stare at the flutter of long eyelashes against slightly flushed skin. He looks lovely. “I’ve been informed that I have some abnormalities.”

John raises an eyebrow. Sherlock looks away and takes a moment to get his wording in order. These people who informed him of his inadequacies had been from relationships formed during his younger drug years. He doesn’t remember much.

“I found myself uninterested in certain activities where a significant other would expect great enthusiasm.”

John smiles and finally looks away. “Right.” Sherlock watches him think this over, translate it from innuendo, and he sees John start to frown.

“You’re not… abnormal.” John mumbles, trying to smile slightly but it gives way to a sad expression. “You’re not abnormal.” He repeats again, looking fearlessly into Sherlock’s eyes. “I reckon you’re quite easy to love.” John says, standing up and shuffling back to the kitchen for a re-fill.

Sherlock stares after him - he can’t bring himself to move, blink or breath and the only reassurance he’s still alive is the heart thundering in his chest. John walks back towards him with his drink.

John crouches down to Sherlock's eye level and leans forwards until his lips meet Sherlock’s forehead. He stays there, feeling the soft skin and enjoying the warmth of Sherlock’s breath against his throat, before standing up and walking to their room.

“Goodnight.”


End file.
